


How to Clear the Stream

by emungere



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wild things are unpredictable. Hannibal had known that when he brought Randall Tier to Will’s house. He knew it now, scrambling through snow drifts that rose to his knees and engulfed his arms when he stumbled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Clear the Stream

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Chrissy for the beta.

Wild things are unpredictable. Hannibal had known that when he brought Randall Tier to Will’s house. He knew it now, scrambling through snow drifts that rose to his knees and engulfed his arms when he stumbled. His hands were going numb already. He had to find a place to turn and fight, stable ground, a weapon. In the distance, he heard a dog barking.

His hands met the rough bark of a fallen tree branch. He grabbed it and swung as he turned. It caught Randall across the middle, but it shattered on impact. Rotten wood. Hannibal crouched in the snow. Randall was a dark, growling shape in front of him, too close now. Too late to run again.

Hannibal flexed his hands inside his gloves and pulled off his scarf to wrap around his forearm. He prepared himself for Randall’s attack, weighed leverage points in his mind, catalogued the chinks in Randall’s armor. The odds were in his favor, as they always were when man fought animal.

And then, in the second before Randall’s leap, movement on the left. Hannibal half turned, anticipating another threat. Randall’s focus remained constant, his movement fluid and terrible, and Hannibal went down under his weight. He felt his flesh part, ripped away in a gouged line down his neck and chest, the heat of his own blood warming him now from the outside.

A small brown and white dog danced beside them in the snow. One of Will’s. Buster. Ridiculous name. Still more ridiculous that Hannibal knew it, but it was something that belonged to Will. 

Randall loomed over him, a darker shadow against the black sky. Hannibal lifted one arm and took the second bite with the padding of his scarf. Even so, he heard the bone snap. His other arm wouldn’t move at all. He got his knee up between them and shoved Randall back, but not far enough.

Hannibal struggled to sit up and then forced himself to his knees. Randall was nearly on him again. Too fast, and Hannibal’s vision was darkening with blood loss. He could smell Randall more clearly than he could see him, the wash of old gore clinging to his teeth and claws.

He rolled aside at the last second, and he knew it was the last move his body would allow him. He tasted blood and frustration at the back of his throat. He wasn’t ready to go. He had so much left still to do.

“Buster! Get back here!”

Hannibal made himself turned his head as Randall shifted and homed in on Will’s voice. Perhaps they would go together, consumed by Randall’s primal hunger to rend and destroy. Fitting.

Hannibal watched Randall crouch. He watched Will toss his rifle into the snow. He watched Randall spring, Will catch and twist him in the air and bring him down to earth with a crash and a sharp cry that might have come from either of them. Randall’s mask ripped from him. The pounding rhythm of Will’s fists on bone and skin.

Darkness descended for a brief space. Hannibal felt the sensation of movement, stars spinning behind his eyes, the taste of blood and snow on his tongue. Buster still barked and bounded around Will’s feet.

“I know your dogs’ names,” Hannibal said. “All of them.”

“I know you do.”

Inside, Will laid him on the bed and kept pressure on his wounds while he called for an ambulance. Hannibal assessed what he could of his injuries without lifting his head. The odds were not in his favor.

“I might have done better in the cold,” he said. The words weren’t right. Will was looking at him oddly. Wrong language. He let it go. Will was unlikely to drag him back out into the snow, and the movement and cessation of pressure would outweigh any benefit.

“You’re going to be fine,” Will said, in the way of people who did not understand the human body and its limitations. His voice was tight with fear. Not just fear. Guilt.

Hannibal gazed up at him. “You’ve been working with Jack,” he said. 

Will rested his face in one hand for a moment. He nodded.

“Never mind. It hardly matters now.”

“You’re going to be _fine_. The paramedics will be here soon.”

“Could we please be realistic instead of—“ He stopped for breath. It sounded wet. “Maudlin. Death has never frightened me.”

“It frightens me,” Will said. He looked pale. Stress lines around his eyes, tight mouth. His throat worked.

“It will make things easier for you.” Hannibal looked up at the ceiling. “You would have had a difficult time springing your trap, I think.”

Will said nothing.

“I would have asked you to leave with me,” Hannibal murmured, more to himself than to Will. “I wanted to show you…everything. Everything that is dear to me. A world of beauty to lay at your feet.”

“Don’t. Just— Rest. They’ll be here soon.”

“You shouldn’t have called them. Tell me you would have come with me, Will. A few more seconds of pretense. Surely you owe me that much.”

Will’s hand closed over his, almost painfully warm against his chilled skin. “I would’ve come with you,” he said. His voice was as thick with emotion as Hannibal’s was with blood. “I will.”

Hannibal smiled. “Very good. I almost believe you. But you have proven to be even more adept at playing a part than I am.” He let his eyes close. “I am glad to have known you. Please don’t forget that.”

Something warm and wet that wasn’t blood landed on Hannibal’s cheek. “Don’t go,” Will said. "Please."

His voice was distant, and Hannibal had never been so cold, not even as a child. “I’m sorry,” he said. He meant for leaving Will alone, but Will would take it as he pleased, and that was all right. Hannibal sank slowly down into the dark. That was fine. 

*

Hannibal woke to the familiar smell of a hospital, overlaid with Will’s fear and sweat and the fading remnants of his terrible aftershave. It took him a minute or two to unstick his eyelids and look around. Will was asleep, with his head and arms resting on the edge of Hannibal’s bed. He woke as soon as Hannibal managed to twitch his hand.

"You're awake," Will said.

"You're not usually given to stating the obvious." Hannibal's voice was a dry croak. He fought not to cough, fully aware of the pain it would cause.

"I was scared."

"Would you have mourned for me?"

Will was quiet for a long moment. "They'll find Randall Tier in his own museum, mounted as one of his exhibits. I did it while you were in surgery. Best alibi anyone could ask for.”

Hannibal's breath caught in his throat, and he could hear the stutter of his heart objectively expressed by the beep of the monitor. "Oh, Will. I wish I could see it.”

“I’ll bring you pictures. Anyway, you’re in the clear. We’ll leave when you’re well enough. Anywhere you want.”

“Was it merely sentimentality that changed your mind?"

Will looked past Hannibal into one of the many worlds that only he could see. "It was the thought of living without you. I don't know how to do it anymore.”

“Were you lonely before we met?”

“No. Alone, but not lonely.” 

“But you would be now.”

“Yes. So would you.”

Exhaustion pulled at Hannibal, thickening his tongue and fogging his brain. He considered Will’s blood on the snow instead of Randall’s and closed his eyes. 

“Yes,” he said.


End file.
